When Clint Barton was born, his mother held him in her arms and took inventory, as most mothers do. Ten fingers, ten toes, one perfect little nose; everything where it should be, and all was right with Edith's world.
But then cautiously, hesitantly, she checked the insides of his wrists, and immediately burst into tears.
A nurse hurried to Edith's side, concern on her face.
"Ma'am? What's wrong?"
"T-they're the same," Edith wailed. "Both exactly the same!"
"Now, now," the nurse soothed. "That doesn't necessarily mean anything, especially if it's a common name! There are lots of Sarahs and Toms in the world." She took a quick peek at the squalling infant's wrists.
"Oh," she whispered, before putting on a bright, strained smile. "Let's get this little man cleaned up, shall we?"
She gently scooped the baby up and moved across the room, leaving Edith behind to stare at her own wrists, the name 'Harold' emblazoned across them both.
-o-
The teasing started in kindergarten.
Prior to attending Shell Rock Elementary, Clint's world had been very narrow. He lived far enough out of town that his contact with other children was limited. His brother was his only playmate, and Barney always had better things to tease him about, anyway.
But within the first hour of the first day, his wrists had caught the attention of the other children, and they circled around him, each talking over the other.
"That's a weird name!"
"Why are they the same? Does that mean your wife is gonna hate you?"
"What kind of name is that? Is it even a girl's!?"
It continued on until the teacher clapped her hands and called the kids to order. They scampered away, taking their places at the long, low tables scattered around the room. Clint hung back, pulling his shirt-sleeves down to hide his wrists before reluctantly joining the rest of the class.
-o-
By the time Clint joined the circus, he'd taken to wearing thick, terry-cloth wristbands. They were more comfortable than long sleeved shirts, and they hid the goddamn name on his wrists perfectly. He was tired of the looks, and the questions. He was tired of the jokes, and sneers, and had long ceased trying to explain anything about his marks. He just put his head down and went about losing himself in the constant crowds.
That changed when Jacques decided to train him.
Clint swapped out the wristbands for an archery glove and an arm guard. He lifted his gaze from the ground and focused on the targets instead. And as time passed, he cared less about the name he was burdened with, and more about making a name for himself.
-o-
The years marched on.
Clint kept on the move, never staying in one place for too long, never putting down roots. He was wary about meeting new people and allowing anyone behind his walls. He figured that as long as he held himself apart, then he'd never have to worry about meeting his greatest love, who, apparently, was also his worst enemy.
He'd rather be alone than have to deal with that mess.
-o-
Eventually Clint found himself in the service of SHIELD. In the early days he volunteered for every mission, took every opportunity to make himself indispensable to the organization.
And for a while, it helped. For a while he stopped thinking about the goddamn name.
But eventually, it started creeping back in. He lay in his narrow bed, lonely and unsure in the post-midnight hours, wondering if he was doing the right thing. Could he truly avoid his fate? And really, when it came right down to it; should he?
When those moments passed, he called himself a fool and continued on, but each time the doubt in his methods grew more and more pronounced.
-o-
2011
Clint took the posting in New Mexico on a whim. He thought it would be easy…maybe give him some much needed downtime. What could be so difficult about helping guard an unknown object while the eggheads looked it over?
He couldn't have been more wrong.
It wasn't the freak storm, or the big, blond jackass that showed up to wreck the place. Hell, it wasn't even the giant robot.
It was a moment in between the two, while he was still in his perch. Blondie had been dragged off to be questioned, and Clint was gazing down at that damned hammer when his wrists started burning. He uttered a startled little cry, and clawed his arm-guard off, expecting to see the skin beneath melting away.
But everything looked fine, and a moment later the pain faded.
"What the hell was that even about?" he muttered, rubbing his exposed wrist slowly.
-o-
2012
Still in New Mexico, but this time guarding a different unknown object. At least this time they were in an actual base, with real beds instead of hunkered in the middle of the desert. Granted, the Tesseract creeped him out far more than Thor's hammer ever did, but it was part and parcel in working for SHIELD.
And then the day came when the door he'd suspected the Tesseract to be opened fully, and a nightmare appeared.
65 seconds later, everyone was down.
Five seconds after that, the mystery man first laid hands on him, and Clint's wrists exploded in agony.
Ten more seconds and his will drifted away, along with the pain.
Thirty second more, and the man announced his name, sending shockwaves through the small part of Clint's psyche that was caged away.
Loki.
That familiar, four letter word that had been emblazoned across the archers wrists since birth. The source of all his misery and doubt.
His soulmate.
His enemy.
His downfall.